


Devilish Exercise

by minnabird



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones, Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Magic, Pre-Canon, Theatre, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnabird/pseuds/minnabird
Summary: Until he's asked to help with a production of Doctor Faustus, Howell Jenkins isn't sure he's satisfied with the study of charms and spells.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).



The chalk scratched satisfyingly against the painted plywood on the stage floor. A few broad sweeps to define a circle, then the detail work of sigils and inscriptions as the actor playing Faustus spoke the words of his speech, round and thundering in the small auditorium. As he completed the circle, the man stepped back, eyes scanning his handiwork.

“Then fear not, Faustus, but be resolute,” he said, voice shaking, “and try the uttermost magic can perform.” His eyes were wide and intense, now, and the next words came in a boom. “ _Sint mihi dei Acherontis propitii!_ ” As he continued to speak the words of Faustus’ summons, a percussionist in the wings beat out a slow, deep rhythm. The demon Mephistopheles, slight and plain in his austere black clothing, entered at the ominous pace of the drumbeat.

In the front row, Howell Jenkins smiled thinly. No one in this audience would appreciate the work that had gone into that circle – drawing on Howell’s own research and that of his advisor, Dr. Ehrlich.

Howell had been as surprised to find himself researching charms and spells as his sister was dismayed. It started as mere intellectual interest – a fascination born of a childhood saturated in Tolkien and King Arthur and an adolescence of Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. Dr. Ehrlich had cultivated him; he said Howell had a rare mind for the work. He could almost admit that the stroke to his ego had been part of the draw.

Intellectual curiosity and vanity could take him only so far, though. He kept himself busy – rugby, his new Dungeons and Dragons group, plus a hellishly boring job – but some restless part of him longed to be doing something concrete, something worthy of his skills. He knew, though, that banking (or whatever Megan wanted him to do that week) would never scratch that particular itch.

Which was why Howell had jumped at the first chance to actually _use_ his research.

Sheila Davies had approached him at a party. His first assessment of her was that she was a quick, nervous thing, blue eyes darting behind her glasses as she spoke. “You see, I’m directing this production of _Doctor Faustus_ – Marlowe’s play – and I really would like to get into historical detail wherever the budget allows,” she’d said. She pointed out a friend of Howell’s, a broad rugby player chatting up a girl Howell didn’t know. “Rex told me you’re actually _studying_ Renaissance magic?”

It was the interest glinting in her eyes that sold him, more than anything else. Now, he watched the scene of simulated magic play out, and waited for the feeling of satisfaction that ought to come from helping produce something concrete.

It never came.

\--

“Well, what’s _wrong_ with it?”

Terence Roberts’ face was flushed with frustration as he kicked his way through a puddle. He was Howell’s mate, but had a low tolerance for melancholy when they’d been drinking.

“I don’t know,” Howell said, ignoring all signals. His hair flopped into his eyes as he drew his coat tighter. “Bloody Wales with its bloody rain isn’t helping. Have you ever seen anything _less_ magical?” The curb slipped out from under his foot, and he jolted down into the street, barely stopping himself from falling over. He hissed out a curse.

“You and your _magic,_ Howell. You ask me, you put a bit too much stock in those spells,” Terence said. “Whoever wrote them in eighteen-hundred-whatever – ”

“Few centuries off,” Howell put in.

Terence gave him a blank glare, then sighed. “ _Whenever,_ they were probably just like you. Too much thinking, not enough enjoying life.” There was a pointed hint in the statement, and Howell shook his head.

“Another pint,” he said. “Maybe I’ll remember how to enjoy life then.” He slung his arm around Terence’s shoulders, grinning widely. “Where next?”

\--

Howell hadn’t gone to see _Faustus_ since the opening night; his work on it was done. He knew that the final night would be on Halloween – Sheila had done that on purpose. What he hadn’t expected was Sheila phoning him the second-to-last night in a panic.

“Alun’s sick,” she said, referring to the actor playing Faustus. “I’d push one of the others up to his role, but they don’t know how to do the circle – I don’t want to lose that piece, my advisor’s going to be there. I can put you up there script in hand. Just get us through this last night?”

Howell hesitated for a moment, but he had to admit, it sounded fun – playing a magician for a night. “If we can get in some rehearsal tomorrow, I’ll see how I feel about it then,” he said.

“ _Thank_ you,” Sheila said, nearly in tears.

And that was how Howell ended up on a stage himself, chalking in each figure, referring every now and then to the script as he worked and spoke.

Every symbol felt like it carved its way into the plywood. Something about the stage lights was electrifying, Howell thought, or perhaps it was the hush of the audience. A warm buzz had started up under his skin at some point, and it continued as he stepped back, the words now tripping off his tongue.

“ _Et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Mephistophilis!”_ Howell cried, with barely a glance at the script.

Light blinded him, and for a moment Howell thought it was only the stage lights, as if he’d somehow glanced straight into them by accident.

When his vision cleared, he saw smoke pouring out of the center of the circle. He regarded it rather in interest than dismay, convinced for long moments that it was an effect that Sheila had somehow managed to concoct in the time since he’d seen the show. He stood still for too long: out of the smoke poured writhing dark faces with cunning red eyes, curling along the floor towards his feet. One by one, they broke off from the greater mass, skittering on tiny legs towards him, pouring off the edge of the stage towards the audience, and, Howell saw with a shiver of horror, leaping into the air to swirl towards the ceiling.

The audience’s silence broke at that; a few faint screams cut through the air, and those in the front rows started to scramble out of their chairs. Howell lost track of them then, for the first wave of the things had reached him. He tried to get out of their path with an ungainly leap, but they merely shifted bearing and came towards him again. Howell’s heart hammered in his throat as his back hit the wall.

The wave didn’t stop, but swarmed over him, covering him in the tickle of thousands of tiny legs against his legs, his torso, all the way up to his face as he stood frozen in horror, feeling as if he was being covered in some ungodly hybrid of a horde of beetles and pure shadow. In the panicked, breathless instant after his vision blacked out, Howell thought, _But magic isn’t real. And Faustus’ spell is nonsense._

There was a hissing noise, and then a rush of dismayed chittering. The shadow-things broke away from him, scattering into the air. Standing on the stage, eyes wide behind her glasses, Howell beheld his rescuer: Sheila Davies, holding a fire extinguisher.

“How did you know they’d…?” he gulped.

“I didn’t,” Sheila said. “It was the only thing to hand.” She swung around, scanning the theatre, but the shadows all seemed to be going _upwards_ now, a boiling black cloud against the ceiling. The crowd was shoving its way out of the theatre.

“Maybe if we can just let them out?” Howell asked, frowning up at the things. (What were they? And, more importantly, _how_ were they?)

Sheila let out a long sigh. “Okay. Worth a try.” She pointed up at the catwalks above, usually used by the lighting technicians. “Fancy a go? There’s a window halfway down, right along the ceiling. I want to make sure that lot get out all right.” She nodded towards the former audience.

“ _Fancy a go_ ,” Howell said, gasping out a laugh. “Yeah, all right. Give me that.” He snatched the fire extinguisher out of her hands and ran backstage, past the clumps of actors cowering there, whispering and wide-eyed.

“What the hell are you doing?” one of them called.

 _Now there’s a question,_ Howell thought. He found his way up to the catwalks and stepped out, nerves strung tight as he kept an eye on the cloud of things below. They seemed to have stayed under the catwalks – for now – but one too-noisy step and he was sure they’d swarm at him again. He placed his feet carefully, heel to toe, heel to toe, metal quivering under his shoes. The cloud brushed against the wire netting below with an eerie _shushing_ sound, like wind in the trees.

Howell could see the window now, a slightly lighter rectangle against the black of the wall. He turned his steps towards it. Just as he had nearly reached it, a wave of black swept over the end of the catwalks from the audience, surging towards him. Howell didn’t have a moment to think: he cried, “ _Watch this!_ ” and threw the fire extinguisher as hard as he could at the window. Relief rushed through him at the crash of glass breaking, and he ducked, arms clamped tightly over his head.

The wave swept over him in a ticklish rush, and Howell squeezed his eyes and mouth ever more tightly shut, sure it would never end. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes, an eon of that sickly uncertainty.

And then they were gone.

Panting, Howell raised his head, staring at the broken window. Whatever they were, they had gone. And all he could think was, _Magic is real._ And, _Could I do that again?_

With that question, a spark of wonder bloomed in his chest, and he knew that _this_ was the answer he wanted most in the world.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prinzenhasserin - I hope you enjoyed this. I kind of took your prompt about Howl finding an entrance to Ingary and ran even earlier with it...


End file.
